This Beautiful Mess
by cherrydust
Summary: With an ailing husband, weak marriage, and unfulfilled dreams, Hermione's world is ready to fall apart into one beautiful mess. {WIP, HPxHG, soon SSxHG}


**This Beautiful Mess**   
**Chapter One**

"It's been a year," Hermione said quietly. She was doing the washing-up, her back to him as her hands mechanically moved beneath the surface of the soapy water. She'd chosen now to speak to him, hoping that the peaceful calm after dinner, that the tranquility of domestic chores would pacify him, endear him to what she had to say. "It's been a year," she repeated as she rinsed a plate. "I think that we can assume that you will-," 

"Why don't you use magic for that?" he interrupted. "It's faster." 

"I like doing it myself," she said patiently. There was a long pause as she scrubbed at a pan, waiting to gather her thoughts again before she spoke. "It's been a year since the accident and I really think that you should give serious thought to Dumbledore's offer." There, she thought as she scrubbed harder, I've thrown it out there. 

"I don't want to leave till we're positive nothing can be done. Hermione, we've been through it a million times. We have to stay near in case there's a change, in case they think of something new." 

Hermione splashed another pan crossly into the water, her patience wearing thin. "It's been a year," she said again, knowing she was nagging and unable to stop herself all the same. "It's been a year since the accident and every time you've been back, they've said the same thing: your condition is irreversible. We need to get on with our lives." Her tone gentled as she added, "We could start a family." 

She turned slightly then to see the still form seated across the kitchen, at the table. His head was bowed and she knew she'd struck a nerve there. Maybe it wasn't a fair shot but she'd been coddling him for a year – it was time he snapped out of it. Hermione didn't plan to spend her life around the corner from St. Mungo's, hoping for a cure that might never come and damned if she would let him do the same. 

"I…I just can't give up hope," he said softly, lifting his head to meet her gaze. "Hope is all I've got, Hermione." 

All the sternness and resolve melted from her features then and with a soft 'oh!' of compassion, she pulled her hands from the water and crossed the room to him. Her hands, wrinkled and dripping wet were gentle as they cradled his face, pushed thick dark strands back from his forehead. "You've got me," she said. "You've got me and maybe one day you'll have a family and you'll still have your hope. It won't go away just because you're not right around the corner from it. We can move on and still hope for the best." He smiled briefly into her hands, reaching up to clasp them with his own. 

"I love you," he whispered into her palms. 

"If you love me, you'll owl Dumbledore first thing in the morning," she said. "You'll let him help us. You'll take us away from here." 

"Bossy as ever," he said and she laughed, a little shrilly, relieved to see the depression lifting from his features. "I'll owl Dumbledore tomorrow. I'll take you away from here," he promised, pressing gentle kisses to her hands. 

"Thank you," she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. His hands tightened on hers as she tried to pull away. "The dishes," she said impatiently and tugged again. 

"Leave them till tomorrow. You can do the washing-up while I write my letter," he said and she smiled to hear humor in his voice again. 

"How am I going to fill my evening then?" she asked playfully, allowing him to draw her closer in again. 

"I'm sure we'll think of something," he said and pulled her down onto his lap, dropping her hands and kissing her lips instead. She smiled against his lips and then gave a tiny shriek as he pushed his chair back from the table. 

"Are you sure you feel strong enough?" she whispered as he kept one arm firmly around her waist and used the other to maneuver the chair around the table, toward the bedroom. 

"I'm fine, Hermione. Don't worry," he said and stopped for a moment to kiss her again. 

"I'm so heavy though," she objected as soon as he abandoned her lips and went back to his task of maneuvering the wheelchair. 

"Hermione, you are killing the moment," he scolded as the chair rolled through the bedroom door. "Everything is fine." 

Obediently, Hermione shut her mouth, but she couldn't help casting a nervous eye over the situation. She wasn't about to let him lift her onto the bed but she didn't want to insult his pride by blatantly avoiding it. This had been the hardest part of their relationship since the accident – the first few weeks, sex had been definitely out of the question due to his injuries but as the months had passed, the bigger issue had been assuring him that she did still want him, that he hadn't become less of a lover in her eyes. It was only in the last two months or so that he had finally felt comfortable initiating any sort of lovemaking with her, although tonight was the first time he'd attempted it anywhere but safely in bed. 

Hermione twitched impatiently on his lap as his hands slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Evidently he wasn't quite sure as how to get her on the bed either. Like almost every other experience over the past year, this was a learning one and she could only hope that it would come easier the next time. His hands were lingering on her skin and she was struck with the sudden urge to say crossly, "well get on with it!" What had once been the best part of their relationship was now the worst, awkward and fumbling, difficult for her to say or do anything less it injure his fragile male ego, frustrating for him not to even be able to take his wife the short distance from kitchen to bedroom without feeling winded. 

Thankfully, for both of them, an enormous yawn from Hermione ended the clumsy attempt. "Tired?" he asked unhelpfully, his hands still on her waist. 

"Yeah," she said and gave another yawn to prove her point. "I'm sorry," she added and had the decency to look embarrassed as she pulled her shirt together. "I wanted to but…" 

"It's fine," he said lightly. "I'm tired too, actually." 

"Really?" she asked, grateful for the escape route he was offering her. 

"Really," he affirmed and with a small smile, shooed her off his lap. "Off to bed with you, then." 

She laughed briefly and started toward the bathroom. Halfway there, she turned to say, "You'll write to Dumbledore for sure then?" 

"Of course." His back was to her now and she felt a sudden tenderness swell at the sight of his shoulders, still thin years after Hogwarts, the lean muscles of his upper body contrasting sharply with his now useless legs. 

"I love you," she said suddenly and came back to him, leaning down to kiss his shoulder affectionately. "I really do love you, Harry." 

Hermione had been eighteen when she'd graduated from Hogwarts. From what she had read, she understood graduations to be times of bittersweet celebration, a fond farewell to childhood and an anticipating hello to adulthood. It was meant to be a delicious time of freedom floating between years of schooling that had ended and the new life that hovered just on the horizon. She was supposed to cry happy tears when she received her diploma, evidence of seven years of hard work and she was supposed to weep bitterly when bidding her classmates and housemates of seven years good-bye, possibly forever. 

Hermione's graduation had not been like that at all. What it had been was a somber affair, darkened by the aftermath of several Death Eater attacks, clouded by the worry that five minutes into the ceremony Voldemort would appear, ready to fulfill that horrible prophesy. Harry's mouth had been a thin tight line that day and his hand had never left his side, wrapped around the wand concealed in the folds of his robes. Ron's freckles had been lurid blotches of color in his pale face as he held his hand in a similar position to Harry's, prepared to aid Harry in whatever manner possible. And Hermione had forgotten half her speech and started crying at the end, falling apart in front of all her class, something she would never forgive herself for. 

The diplomas were handed out quickly. There was no feast in the Great Hall, only sad good-byes and hurried partings. Hermione was spared one agony that day – she, Harry, and Ron had all Apparated to Number 12 Grimuald Street at the end of the day. Unlike their classmates, they were not spending a relaxing summer burning the last of adolescent energy before entering university, apprenticeships, or the workforce. They were to be active Order members, doing anything they could do to bring Voldemort's downfall. 

It was during that awful summer of waiting for Voldemort that Hermione had begun sleeping with Harry. They were on the brink of war and they had known each other for years and it seemed only natural that they reached out for comfort in this way. As the year went on and new Death Eater attacks came and Voldemort was rumored to come closer to Harry each day, they clung to each other, filled with both a very real fear of dying and the romanticized notions of love that adolescent minds will dream up. 

In the end, it was a relatively simple conclusion. Harry faced Voldemort on Hogwarts grounds, just as he had six times before. And he won, just as he had six times before. 

Hermione was nineteen when the war ended. She meant to get on with her life but Harry had clung to her still, unsure of what to do now that he was no longer expected to do anything at all. She'd only meant to stay with him until they were both sorted out because surely this frantic sleeping together thing they'd had during the war wasn't meant to sustain itself in normal times, was it? 

But it had. Hermione had gone to university and Harry had been invited to Seek for England and still, they were together. Only they called it going out, not sleeping together or having a 'thing' or any other silly such term, it was proper going out. Harry called her on Wednesday to arrange a date for Friday, he arrived five minutes early and she kept him waiting ten and then they went to dinner and then they went back to his place and did the only thing that really kept them together on the living room floor. 

She still meant to break it off with him; she knew logically that sex was not a very good reason to stay with anyone. She didn't even know if it was good sex – she'd never been with another man so how could she compare? And every Friday night as she Flooed home, she promised herself that when he rang Wednesday, she'd tell him it was over. She never did though because at twenty, she was still young enough to believe that being alone was the singular worst thing that could ever happen to her. And that is why, at not even twenty-one, she said yes when he proposed. 

They had a lovely wedding and a lovely honeymoon and everything was just so lovely, that for the first few weeks, Hermione was convinced that she'd made the right choice. It only took her a month to get bored of housekeeping and a week after that to get bored of nothing to do but read and she and Harry began to fight constantly. He didn't want her to have a job because he was the man of the house and she didn't want to go back to university for a degree he wouldn't let her use and their arguments always ended in shouting matches and long sulking fits that ended a week later with a spontaneous bout of sex because it was still the only part of their relationship that went as it was supposed to. 

Hermione had only been married six months, still a newlywed, when she began to seriously think of approaching Harry about a separation. Nothing permanent, just a few weeks apart for her to clear her head and to remember why she had liked him so much in school, before sex had become their sole means of communication. She'd never spoken of these thoughts to Harry though because, at this six-month mark, Harry had had his accident. 

It was the worst sort of irony possible. The Boy Who Lived had effectively ended his career in a fall from the broomstick he would have sworn his life on. Hermione had not been there when he fell, but through the garbled words of teammates, coaches, and doctors, she managed to gather a more or less accurate picture of the two Bludgers that had attacked Harry simultaneously, bruising him, breaking a rib and knocking him off his broom. It had happened very quickly, she was told, and it had been stormy and that was why no one had been able to slow his fall. 

Hermione accepted their excuses and apologies and agreed that yes, they were all very lucky that it hadn't been worse. He was lucky to have survived at all, she echoed to her parents and friends whenever asked about the accident. And she told Harry she still loved him, had always loved him, would always stand by him and watched as all that could be done was done. She took him to Muggle doctors and faith healers and to mediwitches and wizards and anyone at all that might possibly do something for him. And the conclusion was the same everywhere: Harry would never walk again. Muggles could not reverse paralysis and the mediwizards and witches would not risk further injury to Harry by attempting to direct their magic to the spinal injury. "Magic is an extraordinarily powerful force, especially when concentrated in one location," a mediwitch had explained. "Healing magic doesn't require just the mediwizard or a potion, it requires the magic the individual himself holds. The patient must channel his own energy with the healer's. In smaller injuries, magic will take care of itself but in injuries such as these…it's just too risky to pour all of Harry's magic and ours into a treatment that might only cause further damage. I…I'm very sorry." 

Hermione's voice had not wavered as she told him this and she had held him when he cried bitterly and she had quietly packed away any dreams of her own. She loved him in a detached sort of way because he was her husband and she loved him deeply because he was her oldest and closest friend. She wouldn't leave him when he needed her most. 

The year after his accident had been a hard one. Hermione had learned to make potions she'd never heard of that would help preserve the muscles in his legs and build the strength in his upper body. She'd learned to help Harry with the Muggle exercises a physical therapist assigned to him and she'd personally Charmed their small flat to be wheelchair accessible. She'd Charmed his Muggle wheelchair as best as she could to make it lightweight and easily maneuverable, but her strengths had always been in Transfiguration and Arithmancy, forcing her to refresh the Charms on the flat and chair on a regular basis. And she'd done what Harry had never wanted her to do – she'd taken a job, becoming the supporting one in the marriage. 

A month before the one-year mark of the accident, Hermione had received an owl from Dumbledore. The letter, simply written, had offered Harry a position as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and room and board at the school. 

"It's perfect," Hermione had said when she'd read the letter to Harry. "You're brilliant at DADA, the students would love you, they'd actually listen when you spoke because you've been through it all. And if we were at Hogwarts, I could quit my job and maybe I could work as a research assistant for someone, one of the professors must have some sort of project going on. Or-," Hermione paused for a moment, "we could have a baby." Harry's eyes flickered at this and she knew she'd found the one weakness. Harry was desperate for a family of his own, the adopted affection of the Weasleys and the awkward kindness of her parents could only go so far. 

"I'll think about it," Harry had said and the matter had been dropped like a hot coal and not taken up again until the night Hermione did the washing up herself without magic. 

"What are you writing to Dumbledore?" Hermione demanded as she refilled Harry's coffee cup, peering curiously over his shoulder. 

Harry sighed exasperatedly, leaning forward the cover the paper. "Would you rather dictate it to me?" 

"Of course not. He's offered the job to you; it should be you that writes to accept it." Her eyes narrowed. "You are accepting it, aren't you?" 

"Hermione!" Harry's voice was an exasperated shout as he laid his quill down heavily. "Will you go find something to do? I'll let you read it when I'm through." "You don't need to shout," she said sulkily and took herself and her own coffee cup off into the living room. With a sigh, she dropped onto the couch and stared out the window moodily, sipping at her coffee. After a moment, she called, "Are you telling him that you intend to stick around for more than a year? He likes dedication!" 

"Hermione!" 

"It was just a suggestion," she said haughtily and took another sip of coffee, listening intently to the scratch of a quill against parchment. She frowned as she heard the sound of an owl's wings, Harry's hushed whisper, the sound of a window being thrown open… "Harry Potter! Are you sending that letter without showing me first?" she cried, jumping to her feet and running into the kitchen. "Of all the low sneaky things," she said, glaring at him. "I'm your bloody wife; it was in the marriage vows that you share everything with me." Harry arched an eyebrow at this. "Well, I was the one who made you write to Dumbledore, anyway." 

Harry only shrugged and gave her an only-slightly guilty grin. "I guess I forgot," he said with such an air of self-pride that her anger melted away. She would take a little provoking if it meant Harry would be Harry again and not the depressed man she'd been living with for the past year. 

"Just as you conveniently forgot your homework and asked for mine for seven years," she said grumpily. 

"You were always so accommodating though." 

Hermione scowled at him. "Harry?" 

"Yes, dear?" 

"Shut up." 

Professor McGonagall was waiting for them at the gates of Hogwarts, leaning heavily on a cane and frowning as sternly as ever at her former pupils. "I supposed that writing to inform us of your time of arrival was too much to ask," she sniffed as she walked out to meet them, the cane not hindering her speed in the least. "We've all been on the lookout all day for you two; we were beginning to wonder if you meant to arrive today at all." 

Flustered, Hermione began to launch into a long-winded explanation of Charm complications and confusion with the flat's owner but was swiftly interrupted by Harry's good-natured, "Hello Professor. It's good to see you again." 

McGonagall's stern look softened momentarily as she gazed down at the man in front of her, the chair he sat in an unforgiving reminder of all he had lost. "Mr. Potter," she said. "It's good to see you as well. And you, Miss – Mrs. Potter." Hermione smiled and opened her mouth to return the greeting but never got the chance as McGonagall turned around briskly and began heading back to the castle, issuing instructions the entire way. Evidently, Hermione and Harry were to follow. 

"I understand that your belongings arrived at the castle yesterday evening, the house elves will have put them away by now," McGonagall said as she clambered up the stairs. "One of the other Professors will show you to your chambers as-," she gave a wry smile here, "-I am not quite up to the challenge these staircases offer at the moment." The smile disappeared and she became all business again, leading them into the Great Hall. "Term hasn't started yet so we're much more relaxed about schedules. The staff usually dines in their own chambers or the staff room, the Great Hall is much too large for so few. Faculty starts trickling in about seven for supper so you should have plenty of time to rest and freshen up before then. I-Professor!" McGonagall interrupted herself at the sight of a tall man sweeping past and when she saw he did not intend to stop, she rapped her cane impatiently on the stone floor. "I said, Professor!" 

With a sigh, the man turned. "What is it, Minerva?" he asked wearily, closing the distance between himself and them with a few short steps. 

"You will show the Potters to their chambers," she said in a tone that left no room for argument. His mouth twitched slightly as though itching to argue anyway, eliciting a glare from her behind her spectacles. "I'll see you at supper," she said abruptly, turning back to Harry and Hermione. With a gentler, almost motherly tone, she added, "I am glad you decided to come." And then, she was gone, leaving the Potters alone with the other professor. 

"Yes," he said softly. "I expect most will be glad you decided to come." 

Hermione could already sense Harry slipping into a sulk beside her and bravely, she took a step forward to say, "Aren't you glad we've come, Professor?" 

"Ecstatic," he said in the same silky sarcastic tones she remembered so well and with a slight bow, motioned for Hermione to pass him. "Shall I show you to your chambers now?" 

"That would be lovely," she said and prodded Harry sternly in the shoulder. 

"Lovely," he echoed, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye and with a jerk of his hands, sent himself far ahead of Hermione and the professor. Halfway to the end of the hall, he stopped and spun himself around to face them. "How," he said and Hermione felt her heart break a little for what it must have cost him to ask this, "am I supposed to manage the stairs?" His voice was matter-of-fact, his face blank, the only emotion expressed the slow tightening of his hands into his fists. 

Wordlessly, the professor lifted his arm, gesturing to the staircase. After a moment, the steps began to ripple until they had flattened themselves out into a flat ramp, winding farther up than Hermione could see. "You are not the first the castle has had to accommodate," he said softly. "You will find your chambers on the second floor. The castle will make only one door available to you, there should be no confusion." He paused for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at the couple. "I am sure Professor Dumbledore will be by shortly to inform you of your duties, Mr. Potter. Mrs. Potter," he added, giving Hermione a brief nod. 

"Thank you, Professor Snape. You've been very accommodating," Hermione said and was unsure of whether she meant for sarcasm to lace her words or not. 

Snape's thin lips twisted into what may have been a smirk and with a short bow, he was gone. 

"I thought he'd gone away after the war," Harry said angrily, wheeling himself back and forth across the room in an odd sort of pacing. "That he was through with teaching, he'd never liked it much anyway. What's he doing back?" 

"The room is very nice," Hermione said from her perch on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to change the topic. 

"You always liked him." Harry groused, still pacing. "You never let me and Ron pick on him, always defended him. Had a crush on his stupid beaky nose or something." 

"Harry! Stop talking like that right now!" 

"See?" 

"I had – I still have – respect for his intelligence and his position as a professor at this school. Not to mention all the work he did for us during the war. I would think that you of all people would respect him for that." 

"I hate him, Hermione." 

Hermione sighed. "I know. I won't try to change your mind; I've learned it's impossible. But considering the fact you work with him now, I think it would be best if you would just try to get along. Just a little." 

"I'll be civil to him if he's civil to me." Harry offered her a compromise in a sulking tone. Hermione rolled her eyes at the slightly pompous inflection in his voice. "Aw, come on Hermione. You can't expect be to like him after everything he put me through at school." Harry came up to the side of the bed and pulled at her hand in mock distress. "He called you an insufferable know-it-all and made Neville cry, it's not just stuff he's done to me that makes me hate him." 

"You shouldn't hate anyone," she replied quietly, pulling her hand from his. "You've seen what horrors it brings." 

There was a long silence between them then as Harry studied the ground and she picked absently at the duvet. Hesitantly, she slid her hand down the duvet to grasp Harry's again. "I…I don't mean to preach," she said slowly, turning his fingers over in hers. "But…it's not even been five years since the war. It's too soon to grab hold of grudges, to let petty jealousies and little slights become important. We need to be very careful in this new world until we know it won't be destroyed." 

Harry smiled, lifting her hand to kiss her fingertips gently. "This is why I love you, Hermione," he said, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "You make me feel like both a horrible and better person in one go." 

"Oh, for goodness' bloody sake," she said crossly, wrenching her hand from his. "You do know how to make a woman feel special, Harry." 

"Not all women. Just this one," Harry said, lifting himself onto the bed, his sturdy arms making what once had been an arduous task effortless. The flicker of mischief in his eyes and spread to his lips and Hermione fought a smile at the impish look twitching his mouth. 

"Harry," she protested half-heartedly as his hands slid up her legs, "There's only a short time till supper." 

"Then we'd better make this quick," he said gravely and with a tiny giggle, Hermione unzipped her skirt. 

It wasn't until their third day at the castle that Dumbledore made an appearance. He'd left Hogwarts the day he'd owled his delight that Harry had accepted his offer back to the Potters on what he'd called Ministry business but what the staff had insisted was actually business involving the Minister of Magic's niece. Dumbledore's absence had been a source of much speculation in the staff room and Hermione, previously sheltered from this aspect of teachers' lives, was both amazed and appalled by the bawdy suggestions her former teachers could make regarding the Headmaster's activities. 

Harry, thanks to his cloak of invisibility, was not half as surprised. 

"Did you think teachers crawled out of the ground every morning, taught for a few hours, and then crawled back into the dirt at the end of the day?" he asked Hermione amusedly as she spoke at great length on the novelty of the idea of teachers being actual people. "Honestly Hermione, you're a bit of a hypocrite. For seven years it was respect this and honor that and teachers are people too and all along you've assumed they had no other mission in life other than to impart knowledge to you." 

"That's not true," Hermione defended herself but the spread of red across her cheeks spoke otherwise. 

"Yes it is," Harry said gleefully and the playful teasing could have soon escalated into a fight if they had not been interrupted at that very moment by a rather pathetic looking house elf. 

"Master Dumbledore wishes to see Harry Potter in his office," the house elf squeaked from the doorway to their room, eyeing Harry's wheelchair nervously. 

Hermione looked at the house elf's tea towel in dismay. "Don't," Harry said to her softly, guessing her thoughts before she'd even had a chance to gather them properly. To the house elf, he said, "Shall I go now?" 

The house elf nodded. "Tilly will take Harry Potter there," it said with a sudden flush of self-importance. 

"What about me?" 

The house elf's confidence faded away as suddenly as it had come. "Master Dumbledore did not say," Tilly answered. 

Hermione opened her mouth to argue this but Harry silenced her again with a gentle, Don't. "I'll tell you everything when I get back," he promised. 

"Why doesn't he want to see me?" 

"It's probably just about my staff duties, boring stuff you won't care about. I probably won't be very long." Harry gave her an encouraging smile. "You can go to the library while I'm gone." 

"That's it; just send me off to the library, just like we were children again." 

"Hermione…" 

"What? Isn't that what you and Ron always told me to do when you didn't want me around? Go to the library Hermione. Isn't there some research you could be doing Hermione? Stop nagging us Hermione, you dusty old bookworm. Go read a book Hermione, you're no fun." 

"Hermione!" Harry sounded surprised at this bitter frustration. "I didn't mean anything… I just…" 

"You just didn't think. I know Harry, you never think about what you're saying." With a sigh, Hermione bowed her head and gently rubbed at her temples. "You never did think and neither did Ron. You'd tell me you were glad I wasn't pretty because it made me easier to be friends with and never understood why I didn't take the compliment. You've never thought about me very much at all." And with that, Hermione leapt to her feet and rushed past her confused husband and the horrified house-elf. 

To her bitter amusement, Hermione found herself in the library. Where else could she have gone for a good cry, she reflected as she walked up and down aisles of books, wiping away tears as she went. After four years away from Hogwarts, she couldn't remember the secret corridors and hidden rooms she'd taken refuge in, as a student and she no longer had the private Head Girl's quarters to barricade herself in. The castle grounds and more public facilities were overflowing with faculty that was making the most of its last free days before students took over and Hermione didn't want to go back to her own chambers quite yet. That left either the dungeons whose dank halls she had always avoided and the library, which was always a comforting presence. Hermione liked books, not just for knowledge and pleasure but because they were so solid and dependable, secure and unchanging. Hermione could open any book in the library and find the exact same words she had read four years ago as a student. It was a comfort that very few things could give her. 

And best of all, no one would be there to see her cry. 

Sniffling, Hermione finally settled herself in a familiar corner that was equipped with a well-worn sofa for more comfortable book browsing. Adjusting her body to the sofa's familiar sagging springs and tucking a faded pillow under her head, Hermione was ready to indulge herself in both a weepy pity party and a long luxurious browse. She had just begun to sulk when a familiar form swept around the corner. 

"Mrs. Potter in the library. What a singularly unsurprising sight." Professor Snape stood a few feet from her, his face unreadable, a lazy drawling sarcasm coloring his words. 

"Professor," she said, not moving from her position. Maybe, she thought, he will go away if I ignore him. 

Unfortunately, Snape did not seem to realize when he was being ignored. "What has brought you back here? You can't be doing homework; I no longer have the happy privilege of assigning you four extra feet of a Potions essay. It can't be research either; you haven't been pestering the staff with questions. Potter hasn't been here long enough to stir up any trouble so you can't be doing his dirty work. Is it perhaps…" without warning, he took a step forward to peer closer into her face. Surprised by the close examination by those dark eyes, Hermione felt a flush rise on her cheeks. "Yes, it is. You've been crying." 

"I don't see what business it is of yours," she said rudely. "I haven't done a single thing wrong and I'm no longer a student so you have no right at all to question me like this. I'm sure that whatever brought you here is much more important than harassing me, so I'd appreciate it if you'd carry on with your business and leave me alone." 

A small, almost imperceptible flicker of astonishment crossed his face. "Mrs. Potter," he said, "I was asked by Professor Dumbledore to see where you'd run off to. I assure you that I am not interested in the least in whether or not you've been crying. I simply did not wish to deliver Harry Potter's wife in tears to the Headmaster." He paused for a moment and then added grimly, "Given my past record with Potter, I do not think the Headmaster would look on that instance kindly." 

"The Headmaster wants to see me?" Hermione asked and winced at the curiosity that had crept into her voice. She hated expressing any sort of emotion in front of this man; it always made her feel as though she was allowing him to gain the upper hand. It would be nice if he'd express some emotion once in awhile, she thought, watching his face carefully. It really did put her at a disadvantage never to have any idea as to what he was thinking. Maybe if she'd had an idea, she could have pleased him more as a student and saved herself detentions and extra essays. Snape had always been the only teacher who wasn't ever pleased with her work, who forced her to redo assignments and gave her extra homework to make up for what he snidely referred to as her inferior class work. 

"I assume that's why he sent me to find you," Snape said dryly. "If you're quite through with your doubtlessly fascinating crying session here, I suggest we go to him immediately. I'm sure you remember from your schooldays that a meeting with the Headmaster is not something to be taken lightly." 

"Actually, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to have another minute," she replied, matching his sarcastic tone. "I'm not quite through here; I haven't soaked this pillow all the way through." 

His mouth quirked in a motion similar to the almost-smirk he'd given her her first day back at Hogwarts. "Mrs. Potter," he admonished. "Sarcasm does not become you." 

TBC 

**Author's Notes:**   
1. All traditional disclaimers apply   
2. I've done research on paralysis for this fic, but my research was by no means in-depth. Please, let me know if I get something wrong or if I offend anyone.   
3. As always, feedback is most appreciated. 


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